


A Day in the Life of an Overworked Archangel

by TogetherAgain



Series: Heaven's New Regime [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Footnotes, Marijuana Use, Mentions of Emotional Abuse, Mentions of PTSD, Not Beta Read, Overuse of Footnotes, Probably inaccurate depictions of marijuana use because I have no experience, Raphael is Genderfluid, Raphael is everything-fluid, Scenery Porn, because Raphael is a little bit of a hoarder, gabriel is an idiot, i got carried away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TogetherAgain/pseuds/TogetherAgain
Summary: What exactly does an Archangel do all day? Well, in Raphael's case, post-Armageddon, it mostly involves cleaning up the other Archangels' mess._________________________________“We had alovelytea, and they told meallabout how mycolleaguesare murderous, traitorous, pompous, conceitedbastardsandhave beenthat for sixthousandyears, atleast.” Raphael glared straight ahead without reallyseeingmuch of anything, still storming forward. “Or maybe theyhaven’t, but the Bastard of All Bastards has atleastbeen… negligent. Possibly downright emotionallyabusive.”Latiel produced their mini tablet screen from nowhere and scrutinized it, presumably adding to their spreadsheet of Raphael’s epithets for the other Archangels. “Which one’s the B-Word of All B-Words?”“Notwhat I said, Lat.”“Notgonna cuss, Raph.” It was already an old, automatic conversation. They swiped a finger across the screen, moving on. “You need to sign off on the Earth Observation Department’s reports for the last twenty-four hours. One report per region. Actually, you’re six days behind on that.”
Series: Heaven's New Regime [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559836
Comments: 44
Kudos: 89





	A Day in the Life of an Overworked Archangel

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place immediately after Post-Apocalyptic Tea Time, but it should stand alone just fine. All you really need to know is that God told Raphael that the other Archangels had betrayed Her, and to fix it, so Raphael went to Aziraphale and Crowley and got (most of) the real story of how the Archangels tried to kill Aziraphale, plus a few key anecdotes of how they treat Aziraphale in general.

**A Day in the Life of an Overworked Archangel**

The Archangel Raphael was livid.

Holy Wrath was never something to take lightly.

He tried to calm himself down with a nice long run. That usually worked for humans. It usually worked for _him_ , too. Or her. Or them. He’d started the run as a she, but unbridled rage did pair nicely with testosterone. Not that female rage was any calmer or prettier or tamer or any of the other odd myths humans made up about themselves that he was _not_ going to think about right now because the point of running was to _reduce_ the anger to more manageable levels, thank you very damn much.

He had to think. Had to be calm. Had to make Big Important Decisions. Needed a level head to even come close to trying.

Running.

Was.

Not.

Helping.

He ran all the way to the main entrance to Heaven[1] and shoved his way through the door and charged across the water[2]. On the ‘up’ escalator, he forced himself to slow to a march. Upon reaching the landing, he began storming his way through Heaven’s stark, massive halls.

He made it all of eight steps before getting bombarded[3]. And that _really_ wasn’t fair, because as much as his appearance fluctuated, how did anyone _ever_ recognize him from _any_ distance? The only part of him that ever really stayed the same was his eyes: two golden irises, edged with silver. Everything else changed more than even _he_ could keep track of.

“Raphael!” Latiel called out, waving and swooping in. They had somehow become Raphael’s assistant, now that Raphael needed an assistant, and he’d already begun to dread the sight of their short-cropped pink hair. At least it was pink. That was practically a rebellion in and of itself Up Here. And really, it wasn’t fair to dread _Latiel_. Latiel themself was nice and considerate and optimistic. “How’d it go?” they said as they fell into step at Raphael’s side, keeping up with his pace. “Was he willing to talk?”

“ _They_ told me everything we need to know,” Raphael said darkly.

“Oh. Their pronouns changed?” Latiel asked.

Raphael furrowed his brows, briefly confused. “No. That was a plural they.”

Latiel’s eyes went wide. “The _demon_ was there, _too_?”

“His name is Crowley,” Raphael said sternly.

“Crowley,” Latiel dutifully repeated. “And no problem with him _or_ Aziraphale? You don’t look injured…”

“We had a _lovely_ tea, and they told me _all_ about how my _colleagues_ are murderous, traitorous, pompous, conceited _bastards_ and _have been_ that for six _thousand_ years, at _least_.” Raphael glared straight ahead without really _seeing_ much of anything, still storming forward. “Or maybe they _haven’t_ , but the Bastard of All Bastards has at _least_ been… _negligent_. Possibly downright emotionally _abusive_.”

Latiel produced their mini tablet screen from nowhere and scrutinized it, presumably adding to their spreadsheet of Raphael’s epithets for the other Archangels. “Which one’s the B-Word of All B-Words?”

“ _Not_ what I said, Lat.”

“ _Not_ gonna cuss, Raph.” It was already an old, automatic conversation. They swiped a finger across the screen, moving on. “You need to sign off on the Earth Observation Department’s reports for the last twenty-four hours. One report per region. Actually, you’re six days behind on that.”

“Put it on my desk,” Raphael muttered.

“Also, the Prayer Department has some Major Miracle Requests up for debate. You need to read the arguments for and against, and give a recommendation.”

“Written or verbal?”

“A _written_ recommendation.”

“Damn it.”

“No, _bless_ it. Or don’t bless it. Damning’s the other guys,” Latiel teased. Again, it really wasn’t fair to dread the sight of Latiel. They did _try_ to make this _not_ excruciating. “I’ll give you a rundown of each. First up, yay or nay on healing a priest with terminal cancer in… Pittsburg? Whole congregation’s been praying for him, but it’s complicated because they obviously don’t know he’s been embezzling. _Mostly_ to pay medical bills, but not entirely.”

“Put it on my desk.”

“Next is a bunch of people trying to raise money for a prosthetic leg for a kid in, uh… Ethiopia. They’re nowhere close, but I mean, he’d outgrow it in, like, a year? And they’d just need _another_ miracle for the _next_ one, and so on, but there’s a note from Observations that just one miracle could change his whole life course and all _that_ jazz—”

“Yeah, put it on my desk. How many of these are there?”

“Um…” Latiel scrolled on their screen. “Twenty-three?”

Raphael scowled. “ _All_ on my desk.”

“Got it. Also, quarterly reports are in from all the angels currently stationed on Earth—minus Aziraphale, no duh. You’re supposed to read ‘em and stamp ‘em. I’ll do the filing for you when you’re done with them.”

“Thanks,” Raphael said automatically, and then he allowed himself to groan. “Put it on my desk… if there’s _room_ …” He would be lucky to ever _find_ his desk again, under all of that.

“Uh-huh. Also, the Meddling Office[4] is petitioning for an extra agent on Earth to handle the Brexit thing. They also need you to pick a candidate to back for the American President.”

Raphael stopped, miracled a pillow into his hands, and screamed into it. Latiel waited. Raphael popped the pillow back out of existence and glared at them. “Does that _actually_ accomplish _anything_?” he snapped.

“The pillow screaming or the candidate backing?”

“Candidate backing.”

Latiel shrugged. “Not my department.”

“Of course not,” Raphael muttered. He stomped down another massive, empty hallway with Latiel in his wake.

Latiel suddenly realized what Raphael’s destination was. They straightened up. “Did you figure out their punishments?” they asked quietly.

“No.”

Latiel suddenly felt like they were _scrambling_ to keep up with Raphael, even though his pace hadn’t changed. They studied the Archangel’s features. He’d gotten taller and paler, and his hair had turned red. “…Do you need to ask them more questions?” they said warily.

“I’m _angry_.”

“…Um. Should I _not_ go in with you?”

His face clouded, and his metallic eyes flashed. “…Might not hurt to have a witness,” he said, his voice dark and ominous. “Keep me in check.”

Latiel gulped.

Until just over a week ago, Heaven had never had or needed a prison. Eight days ago, that had changed.

Raphael stormed through the door with Latiel right behind him.

Heaven’s prison contained exactly five cells. The first one matched the stark white aesthetic of the rest of Heaven, was big enough to hold a whole platoon, and was currently occupied by the very angel who had created it.

“Archangel Raphael, I _really_ don’t think I should be here,” the Quartermaster said as soon as he saw the Archangel. “They were being insubordinate! I _had_ to make sure they did not fall into enemy hands, or impede with the War effort, or—”

“Shut up,” Raphael snapped.

He shut up.

Raphael had made the other four cells, and had aimed to make them the _opposite_ of Heaven’s aesthetic. He’d managed to make them feel relatively cramped, and he’d _tried_ to make them all black. Heaven didn’t like black, though, and they’d turned out more of a dingy gray. No miracles were possible within _any_ of the cells, and _that_ was what really made it a prison. The bars were just for show. And as it turned out, Heavenly cell doors didn’t bother with locks, either—they just knew who was allowed to open them and who wasn’t.

So there was nothing to slow Raphael down as he hauled open the first door of iron bars[5] and charged in to slam Archangel Michael back against the cold gray wall and pin her there with his forearm braced across her chest. She’d barely had time to register _shock_ on her face before his fist slammed into her gut with a mighty uppercut.

By the time Michael registered the pain, Raphael was in the next cell. Archangel Uriel let out a startled “Uft” as she got the exact same blow from Raphael’s fist. Her palms found the wall she’d been shoved into, and she let herself sink down as Raphael moved on.

Archangel Sandalphon, of course, could _see_ all of this from _his_ cell, and knew what was coming. Even before Raphael reached for the door to _his_ cell, his eyes were wide and his hands were up in surrender. “No please don’t—”

_Wham_ —into the wall, and _one—two—three_ powerful uppercuts, and then the harsh clang of iron bars as Raphael stormed out of his cell and into the final one.

Archangel Gabriel had also raised his hands to surrender, beg for mercy, but was now frozen, deer-in-headlights style.

Bad things happen to deer who freeze in fast-moving headlights.

_WHAM!_ The bones in Gabriel’s corporation rattled as he slammed back against the wall, pinned there very firmly with one of Raphael’s forearms across his collarbone. There was no punch to the gut, though. Instead, Raphael’s fist clamped one of Gabriel’s arms up against the wall, firmly securing him so that he could not forget he’d been poised to _surrender, plead for mercy, beg for it_.

“And how’s the Archangel _Fucking_ Gabriel today?” Raphael seethed, mere inches from his face. “How you’ve managed _not_ to Fall under the weight of your own _pride_ is _beyond_ me.”

Gabriel stared back at him, caught somewhere between pain and terror, and then somehow regained some air and the ability to speak. “Uh—I can—let—I can explain!”

Raphael shifted his forearm up to crush Gabriel’s neck. Not hard enough to do any lasting damage, but quite enough to cut off his air supply. Not that he _needed_ to breathe, but the neck of any body came with plenty of nerve endings. “There _is. No. EXPLANATION_ ,” Raphael roared. “There is no _excuse_! There is _NOTHING_! You, you—you _pitiful_ excuse of an _Archangel_! You _FAILED._ You _failed_ Principality Aziraphale, over and over and _over_ for _six thousand years_ , when _you_ were meant to _WATCH OVER HIM_! You treated him like _dirt_ , and then you had the _gall_ to try to _kill_ him for turning his back on _YOU._ His _abuser_! What the _HELL_ did you _EXPECT_?”

He grabbed Gabriel by the shoulders, digging his fingers into that self-righteous _suit_ , just to pull him an inch forward and shove him against the wall again.

“Tell me _exactly_ ,” he demanded. “How many commendations did you _not_ tell him about? Because you praised him six ways from Sunday behind his back, but you only ever said it to his face _once_ , didn’t you?”

“That—that was—for his own good!” Gabriel said desperately, eyes wide and pleading. “He _doesn’t like_ … Raph!”

“ _Raphael_.”

“Raphael! You remember after the War, we had that big ceremony and _all_ of us gave him all of those medals. Remember that? A couple dozen, and he earned all of them, we all agreed, right?” He was glancing past Raphael’s shoulder, like he expected the other imprisoned Archangels to back him up. “And do you _know_ what he did with those medals? He left them all in a big pile, on the floor in one of the training rooms. He _hated_ those medals. So, _obviously_ , I avoided actually _giving_ him any _more_ that he earned, so I wouldn’t upset him!”

For a long moment, the prison was perfectly silent. Gabriel was frozen, watching Raphael’s face, waiting for judgment. Raphael stood just as still, staring back into his eyes.

“…I was trying to protect him!” Gabriel said desperately. And the craziest part was… well, that he was being honest.

It is a well-known fact among humans, from a fairly young age, that the region between the legs is very sensitive, and not a fun place to receive any strike. It is a widely-held misconception, among angels who have not spent enough time on Earth to find out the hard way, that as long as they don’t Make an Effort to have any particular body _part_ in that area, their corporations[6] are immune to such sensitivities. The truth is that nerve endings are hard-wired in, regardless of any Effort.

With a well-aimed and very powerful knee, Raphael enlightened Gabriel.

Then he let go, stepped back, and watched as Gabriel crumpled to the floor, gasping and swearing.

Raphael stood very still and silent, with his hands and jaw clenched. Staring. _Fuming_.

Refusing to bend.

Refusing to break.

He turned on his heel and marched out of Gabriel’s cell, past a very silent Latiel, and out of the prison, into Heaven’s blindingly blank hall.

Latiel followed right behind him, hugging their screen to their chest. Both of them were silent. After a moment, Latiel pulled the screen away from their chest and tapped on it. They waited to feel Raphael’s eyes on them, and then they spoke very quietly, still looking at the screen.

“I figured out which one’s the B-Word of All B-Words.”

_Oh, bless you, Latiel_ , Raphael thought, but he was in no state to say it.

Fortunately, Latiel didn’t seem to expect a response any time soon. They looked up and waited.

Raphael closed his eyes and rubbed his hands on his forehead. Too much anger was still roiling all through him. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. Too much _everything_ , inside. And outside, far, far too much _nothing_.

He forced himself to open his eyes and look at Latiel. “…I think,” he finally said. “I need… some time. In my office. Alone.”

Latiel nodded once. “Of course,” they said quietly.

Raphael nodded and closed his eyes, shutting out all the endless, endless _white_. He focused. And he snapped his fingers.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone in his office.

Raphael was very fond of all the words humans came up with for collections of random things that didn’t really go together and yet somehow _worked_[7]. Words like ‘mishmash’ and ‘hodgepodge.’ He especially liked the word ‘eclectic,’ because it was often used to try to make a veritable junk drawer of interior design sound stylish and edgy. Raphael’s favorite way to describe his own design sense[8], as displayed in his office, was ‘stone soup.’

The only thing that the contents of his office all had in common was that he _liked_ them.

(Well, except for the paperwork, but he was ignoring the existence of that right now. Specifically, he was ignoring the fact that it was in his office.)

Raphael’s office was covered in all different shades of red and brown and yellow and orange, with a pinch of green and a dash of blue. It was _Earthy_. The floor was covered in carpets, all rugs and mats from different times and places in human history. Most of the furniture in the room was made of wood: coffee tables, chests, cabinets, and armoires were all scattered around the room, along with an awful lot of shelves and shelving units. The shelves were made of metal or wood, or occasionally even glass. Some were painted. Some were carved in intricate designs. Some were made of such raw material that they barely even looked finished. All of them were completely covered in _things_.

To start with, there were the figurines. Figurines made of wood, stone, metal, ceramic, glass, and even plastic. Figurines of various sizes, depicting people and animals and various landmarks that humans had built and celebrated through the ages. The pyramids of Egypt were represented in miniature, along with the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Statue of Liberty… and also landmarks that no longer stood on Earth, like his three-foot tall replica of the Lighthouse of Alexandria. Of course, not all of the countless figurines depicted _real_ things. For some reason, Raphael’s collection included an awful lot of dinosaurs. And dragons. Also, a blue Police Box that was obviously not just a Police Box, which for some reason was accompanied by R2D2[9].

Of course, not _everything_ in Raphael’s office had been made just to look at. He also had an awful lot of toys. He had ancient rag dolls from all over the world, several of the earliest yo-yos, a far more recent hoop and stick, and a model train that always ran in a continuous loop around the perimeter of the office. Humans had been making toys for as long as there had been children, of course, but they’d gotten incredibly creative about it lately, and Raphael had indulged by adding things to his collection like a slinky, some Silly Putty, a set of Legos, and a Magic 8 Ball. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—his fascination with new toys had reached an abrupt end when his Furby had gotten on his last nerve, and… well, it turns out that those things were not designed to withstand incineration.

But the vast majority of _things_ in Raphael’s office had not been mass-produced. Most of his belongings were the careful, hand-crafted work of skilled artisans. Or amateurs. Specific individuals, anyway. Perhaps the best example was the one-of-a-kind cuckoo clock, ticking away on the wall. A few centuries ago, Raphael had miracled the clock to wind itself whenever necessary, and it had been running continuously ever since, although he had no idea what time zone it was keeping time with, if any. Naturally, it had a little wooden bird that popped out and announced the hour and the half-hour, but when the bird was done… well, then little wooden humans twirled out and danced to a brief, lovely little tune, while other nearby tiny wooden humans sipped at miniature beer steins, swaying like they were also enjoying the music[10]. And on the level below that, the little wooden humans went about all sorts of mundane chores, like sawing wood and drawing water from a well[11] and hanging the laundry up to dry[12]. Raphael had specifically ordered it, had paid for it in advance, and had then insisted on paying more upon seeing the finished product. All told, this cuckoo clock had fed the clockmaker’s family and kept a roof over their heads for four years, which was plenty of time for the man and his daughter to recover from their illnesses and for his reputation as a clockmaker to reach sustainable levels.

There were similar stories behind the vases, urns, jugs, and other assorted pottery that adorned so many of the shelves and tables and a few spots on the floor, as well as the wide assortment of hourglasses and statues set out among the shelves and on the tables. Actually, _most_ of the things in Raphael’s office had that kind of story, especially the furniture. The overstuffed recliner had paid for a woman’s ticket to escape her abusive husband; the bean bag chairs had been just enough for a young medical student to pay for his textbooks; the chaise longue had paid for a life-saving surgery[13]; the rocking chair had fed a young widow for two months; the lectus[14] had allowed a restaurant owner to pay off his debt. Small miracles, disguised as business transactions, and Raphael was happy to overpay. The walls were every bit as covered as the floor and the shelves, all hung with tapestries, paintings, and sketches, made by artists who had all been forgotten by history. Raphael remembered them all. 

Right now, though, the only thing in his office he was looking at was a full-length mirror. Raphael had been collecting mirrors for as long as humans had been making them; they were exceptionally useful for someone whose physical appearance changed as much as his did. Right now, he was examining his reflection, studying how he had presented himself before the imprisoned Archangels. At the _moment_ , he looked like a White man. As for the exact details… it wasn’t hard to spot the influences.

He had Aziraphale’s girth, and Crowley’s height; Aziraphale’s hair style, but in Crowley’s hair color; Aziraphale’s nose, Crowley’s lips, pulled into Crowley’s sneer. Even his _clothes_ … Well. The jacket was white instead of cream, and his waistcoat was far more modern than Aziraphale’s, but Raphael couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a waistcoat at all. Under all that, he had a much paler version of Crowley’s t-shirt. And he was wearing jeans—not terribly unusual in and of itself, true, but his jeans had _no_ business being this tight. Not that they were anywhere near as tight as Crowley’s, but _still_.

In short, Raphael was currently presenting as a blend of the two Beings his fellow Archangels probably feared the most. 

He wasn’t convinced they still feared God.

He'd chosen this appearance entirely subconsciously. Had he been reflecting Aziraphale and Crowley because he had just seen them? Or had he chosen his appearance specifically to intimidate the other Archangels?

Maybe both. Maybe more the latter reason, though, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about himself for that. Even if it hadn’t been a _conscious_ choice, it was still a choice.

If he stooped to the other Archangels’ level, even the slightest bit, then Heaven would only get worse.

There was no room for error right now. At all.

He dug his fingers through the short curls on his head and gripped his hair tight. “No _pressure_ or anything!” he snapped, and he looked up. “ _Thanks_ , Lord!” With a frustrated groan, he stormed over to his desk, where he continued to very pointedly ignore the massive stacks of paper that very nearly obscured the entire desktop from view. Instead, he rifled through the drawers, searching.

Life required coping mechanisms, and immortal life especially so. Raphael knew that Aziraphale and Crowley relied heavily on alcohol. Some angels turned to prayer or kept zen gardens, or worked things out by flying or rigorously training for Armageddon[15], or they would indulge in a full spa treatment at the Preening Center. Arch-Idiot Gabriel apparently coped by taking things out on a certain Principality. As for Raphael? She preferred cannabis.

Wait. _She_?

…Yup. Yeah. Definitely a _she_ now.

Raphael set aside her search for her cannabis—for now—and returned to her full-length mirror to see how _else_ her identity felt like changing just now.

She scowled and squinted at her reflection until she had erased every trace of her Aziraphale/Crowley blend façade… except the hair. She kept the hair. But she was soon presenting as a short, plump Black woman, dressed in a pale yellow blouse and a much more comfortable pair of white trousers. She had chosen a similar appearance very consciously earlier today, when she’d gone to seek out an audience with Aziraphale and Crowley, but regardless, she had been spending far more time than usual as a short, plump Black woman this week. She knew exactly why. Every part of her, right down to her _body_ , was trying to make it as clear as possible that she was absolutely, definitively, _Not Gabriel_.

Satisfied that her transformation was complete for now, Raphael sighed and returned to her desk to resume shuffling through the drawers.

Naturally, that was when someone knocked on the door.

Raphael closed her eyes and took a very slow, deep breath, in and out. She wanted, _needed_ , some time to herself, time to relax and _process_ , just a little! But tensions were high in Heaven these days. Very high. And with four Archangels in prison and the rest as absent as ever, Raphael was the only one left, and if she was anything less than _perfect_ , if she dared to be out of reach or stand-offish, then there would be no respect left for the title of Archangel and all of Heaven would quickly devolve into a whole new War without any help from Downstairs. So she looked up at the door and very politely called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and Metatron himself poked his head into the room, looking apologetic. “The Lord said for me to check on you.”

Raphael blinked. “…So am I talking to _Her_ right now, or just you?” Always an important point to clarify, when Metatron was involved.

Metatron furrowed his brow, tilted his head to one side, and looked upwards. “…I _believe_ just me. She didn’t tell me what to say.” He returned his gaze to the Archangel and shrugged. “I will let you know if it changes.”

Raphael took a deep breath in and out through her nose. Through no fault of his own, as the Voice of God, Metatron was never anyone’s first choice for a confidant. But Raphael’s usual first, second, third, and very distant fourth choices in confidants were all in jail cells right now, and she’d been the one to put them there. And so she was finding that, when he was off-duty, Metatron was actually a pretty good listener and a decent angel. They were getting to be friends. Silver lining, maybe. She waved him into her office. “C’mon, close the door,” she said wearily, and she gestured vaguely to her ‘stone soup’ collection of furniture. “Find a spot.”

Metatron selected a bean bag chair and awkwardly settled himself into it[16] as Raphael resumed her search through her desk drawers. “How did it go?” he asked anxiously. “Did he ask about—when—when he tried to call? Did you tell him how sorry I am? Did you tell him I was just following orders?”

Raphael sighed with relief as her hand _finally_ closed around a simple cloth bag. A quick glance inside confirmed she’d found what she was looking for. “It didn’t come up,” she said.

Metatron frowned. “It didn’t come up?” The words sounded strange, coming from him.

She scanned a nearby shelf, plucked up a jade pipe[17], and carefully filled the bowl. “Aziraphale didn’t actually do much talking about all his grievances. Too much to go through. Too… rough,” she said. “Crowley talked for him. Spared him the emotional stuff, as much as possible.” She lit the pipe and took a long, slow inhale.

“…Oh.” Metatron rolled that over in his mind, not at all surprised to hear that Crowley had been there, and then he nodded. “That… is good, I think,” he decided. He sighed. “I just feel so _awful_ about it. I _begged_ Her to let me tell him _something_ useful, at least give him a _hint_ , or _something_! But She _insisted_ that I just preach the so-called _Great Plan_. She said it would—”

“Would give him the _push_ he needed. I _know_ , Metatron. You’ve _told_ me. _Sixty-seven times_[18], you’ve told me.” Raphael slowly wove through her various furnishings, making her way over to join him.

He sniffed, and then he scowled at the pipe she was holding, having apparently just gotten around to noticing it. “You _do_ know you’re not supposed to do that here…?”

Raphael rolled her eyes. “Nobody _minded_ it when all those priests were smoking herbs for _spiritual enlightenment_ ,” she said. “Which didn’t actually work, but still. It’s only _against the rules_ now because humans started making it illegal, which was all Hell’s doing anyway. And _now_ they’re taking credit for _legalizing_ it again. And actually, I think they’re the ones who spread all the stuff about it giving spiritual enlightenment.” She took another puff. “…How come _Hell_ has all the good ideas?”

Metatron shrugged. “They have Crowley?”

Raphael shrugged and sighed. “Not anymore, they don’t.” Having finally reached the area where Metatron was sitting, she flopped down into a neighboring bean bag chair and stared up at the ceiling. 

“…Are you alright?” Metatron asked.

She gave the ceiling a completely humorless smirk. “Not even close.” She took another hit from her pipe and straightened up a little. “We _all_ failed, you know,” she said faintly. “Not just the ones in jail. We _all_ let Aziraphale down, in the _worst_ ways possible. With the possi—er. _Probable_ exception of his platoon.”

Metatron folded his hands in his lap, and then started tugging on his fingers. “Did you tell him his platoon was imprisoned?” he asked quietly.

Raphael slowly shook her head. “What would I tell him? ‘Oh, by the way, your whole platoon followed your example and refused to fight, so the Quartermaster made a jail and threw them in it’? They’re _out_ now. And he’s been through enough shit. I didn’t wanna give him more bad news.”

Metatron nodded thoughtfully. “…Quartermaster is still in jail for it, isn’t he?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And he’s been there longer than the platoon was, now,” he said quietly. “Three times as long, I believe.”

Raphael sighed. “You think I should let him out.”

Metatron pursed his lips. “I think, he was stressed, with everything about Armageddon. There was a great deal of pressure on him, and all he had to work with was what the Archangels told him. He did not actually _hurt_ anyone, or try to. He just put them in a cell, because they weren’t following his orders. And keeping them there might have actually kept them safer, with the way so many tempers were flaring when it all got called off.” He watched as Raphael quietly smoked her pipe. “…Don’t let _your_ temper blind you, Raphael,” he said gently. “Quartermaster is a cog in the machine. He isn’t your big fish.”

Raphael stared blankly at a nearby bronze statue of a duck, with a handmade scarf tied around its neck, as she let Metatron’s words roll around in her head. She sighed and nodded. “Yeah. We’ll let him out,” she said wearily.

Metatron nodded. “…How _is_ Aziraphale’s platoon?” he asked.

She shrugged and took another puff at her pipe. “They keep asking to visit him.”

Metatron frowned. “Why… _wouldn’t_ they be able to?”

“Oh, yes, great idea. Let’s send an entire platoon of angels to London, all at once, unannounced. That’ll go over swell.”

“…Yes… Good point,” Metatron conceded. “Have any of them actually been on Earth, ever?”

“One. And another has been in Earth Observation since the beginning, so she could _probably_ blend in fine. But, the other forty-eight…?” Raphael pointedly raised an eyebrow at him.

“…Would cause mass panic, amongst the humans,” Metatron agreed. “Not to mention how Crowley would react to a platoon of angels surprising them. But surely _Aziraphale_ wouldn’t mind seeing his own platoon, would he? If we told him in advance they were coming, that they wanted to visit him?”

Raphael took another drag from her pipe. “…Other than whatever glimpse they got at Armageddon, and _one_ encounter with the _one_ angel of the fifty to have been on Earth at all… Aziraphale and his platoon haven’t seen each other in six millennia,” she said wearily. “Gabriel gave them a no-contact order. He told _them_ it was because it would be too upsetting for _Aziraphale_ , because seeing them would remind him too much of the War. And Gabriel is very clearly an idiot who has _no_ comprehension of… of PTSD, and he’s made no effort to _learn_ , and as far as I can tell he never bothered to actually _ask Aziraphale_ what he wanted or needed or if it _would_ upset him to see his platoon, so it’s _probably_ nonsense, but… but I don’t _know_.”

Metatron let that settle, and then he asked the obvious question. “Did _you_ ask Aziraphale?”

Raphael let out a sound that might have been a whimper. She propped her elbow on her knee and dumped her forehead into her palm. “I _meant_ to. But I just… I had to let _them_ lead, how things would go. I wasn’t even sure they would let me _in_. And with what I _learned_ there? Honestly, I don’t know why they _did_ let me in! Because if _I’d_ been them, I _wouldn’t_ have.” Her pipe had gone out, and she set it aside and shoved her fingers through her short red curls. “How many commendations has Aziraphale gotten? Do you know?”

Metatron blinked, assumed this apparent tangent was related to what Raphael had learned from Aziraphale and Crowley, and furrowed his brow in thought. “Are we including his War medals?”

“No. Commendations that Aziraphale has earned _on Earth_.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head to one side and very carefully started to silently count on his fingers. He made it through all ten fingers three times, started on a fourth, and then paused. “…Are we counting Principality of the Month Awards?”

Raphael felt herself smirk faintly, remembering how Crowley had reacted to the existence of Principality of the Month Awards. “ _Real_ commendations.”

“I see.” Metatron continued silently counting on his fingers until he was somewhere in the forties. Then he frowned, staring at his fingers like they were hiding something from him. He scowled and shook his hands out. “Off the top of my head, I would have to estimate it at: _a great many_.”

Raphael nodded. “A more than respectable haul,” she agreed. “And how many of those commendations do you think he _knows_ about?” she asked, her voice deceptively light as she leveled her metallic eyes at the other angel.

The implication sank in, and Metatron’s face fell. He immediately snapped his eyes upwards, his tell-tale checking-what-God-says expression.

“No cheating!” Raphael said with a flick of her wrist, and he grimaced. “Guess.”

He sighed. “…Eighteen?” he guessed miserably. “Eighteen is a good number. I like eighteen.”

“One,” Raphael said softly. “He only knows about _one_. And, do you know which _one_ he knows about?”

He winced. “Is it one of the ones for smiting Crowley? Because we both know he never _really_ smote Crowley.”

“No, it’s the one _Gabriel_ gave him with that whole—dumb— _promotion_ business when he tried to have Aziraphale brought back up to Heaven!”

Metatron quickly looked away, but not before Raphael caught a glimpse of his scowl and the shadow that crossed his eyes.

“Wait _what_ is that, what is that look?” she demanded.

He grimaced and shifted in his bean bag chair, glancing around before reluctantly, apologetically, meeting her gold-and-silver gaze. “This is still just _me_ ,” he started. “Just… some… inside information. I have.” He cleared his throat. “Aziraphale didn’t technically _earn_ that one. Gabriel made it up. Part of his—scheme, really, to… _contain_ Aziraphale. Which—well, She didn’t mention to _Gabriel_ , but—all, very— _against_ Her wishes.” He gestured vaguely upwards to clarify Whose wishes. “If he _had_ gone through and—relocated, Aziraphale, I had orders to intervene.”

“Wait. Go back.” Raphael very carefully rubbed her forehead. “…What do you mean about… _contain_ Aziraphale?”

Metatron started tugging on his fingers again. “I don’t know details. I’m not sure Gabriel _had_ details _planned_. But. I, um.” He stared intently at his hands as he fidgeted with them. “…I am under the impression that, um. …Well. …Modern humans might conjure up images of strait jackets and padded cells.”

Raphael’s jaw slowly lowered. Then she was on her feet, fists clenched, storming around her office, pacing in any random direction she could manage. “Bastard! That fucking _BASTARD_! I will _KILL HIM_!” she screamed. “I will fucking _KILL_ that _BASTARD_!”

“You will not,” Metatron said quietly, calmly.

“ _SEE IF I DON’T!”_ she raged. “That—that—it wasn’t even _PUNISHMENT_ , was it! That was—was—‘Oh, I’m _ASSUMING_ this person is _CRAZY_ , but _I_ can’t be bothered to check! Can’t handle it! How ‘bout we just _KILL HIM_!’ _THAT’S_ what it _WAS_! It had nothing to _DO_ with _Armageddon_!” She was screaming, flailing her arms out, _livid_. “I’ll _KILL HIM_! That _fucking BASTARD_! I’ll _SHOVE_ him into the fire _MYSELF_! I’ll—”

“ _Raphael_.” Metatron was on his feet in front of her, staring her straight in the eyes, and gripping her upper arms tight enough to bruise[19]. “…Another piece of inside information for you,” he said quietly. “The bit about ‘an eye for an eye’? That was Hammurabi.” He jerked his head upwards without breaking eye contact. “She let it slide at the time, but She _regrets_ that it ended up in one of _Her_ books.” He stayed still and silent for a long moment, making sure that his words had gotten through, and that Raphael’s blind fury had dissipated. Then he let go of her arms and stepped back, making a quick gesture to heal any bruises he’d left before they could fully form.

Raphael took a slow, shaky breath, in and out. She sank down onto the lectus and slowly noticed that she was no longer, exactly, short or plump. She was still _thick_ , but thick with muscle, now. And taller. And—with a thought—conveniently barefoot, and she pulled her feet up onto the cushion and loosely wrapped her arms around her knees. “…The _worst_ part is, so many angels still think Gabriel and the rest were _right_ , and that Armageddon _should_ have happened, and _I’m_ a horrible villain for locking the other Archangels up.” She sighed, tucked her chin down on her knees, and turned to regard her companion. “…What am I gonna do, Met?” she said miserably. “If I punish the other Archangels too _harshly_ , half of Heaven will have me drawn and quartered, and if I’m too _lenient_ , the _other_ half of Heaven will be at my throat.”

Metatron sighed and settled down on a coffee table in front of Raphael. Then he frowned and gave her a hesitant look, pointing to the surface he was on. “Is this a sitting thing, or a not-sitting thing?”

Despite everything, Raphael let out a faint laugh and gave him a weak smile. “It’s a not-sitting thing, but it’s fine,” she said with a dismissive wave.

Metatron stood up anyway and pulled over a wingback armchair to sit in. He hadn’t spent much time on Earth, and so he mostly guessed which furniture in Raphael’s office was meant for sitting on based on whether or not it had _things_ on it. It wasn’t his fault the coffee table was clear.

It didn’t stay clear for long. As soon as Metatron had settled into the armchair, the latest issue of the _Celestial Observer_ materialized on the coffee table, displaying the headline ARMAGEDDON STILL CANCELED.

Raphael straightened up, frowning at it. “…Does _Aziraphale_ get the paper?” she asked.

Metatron hesitated. “…I don’t know if he _still_ does, after—everything. But he always did _before_ ,” he said. “Why?”

She reached over and lifted the paper, holding it up without unfolding it at all. “Because, for as long as we have _published_ a newspaper, there has _always_ been something in _every_ single issue, detailing the latest commendations that have been given,” she said. “I _know_ that Aziraphale’s have all been published. I’ve read them there myself.” Her gold-and-silver eyes bored into Metatron’s face. “So. If Aziraphale doesn’t _know_ about _any_ of his commendations, _including_ the ones he earned in the… four hundred or so years we’ve had a weekly paper. And we know for _sure_ that he _gets_ the paper. …Does he not _read_ it? Or, has _his_ newspaper been altered somehow? Because I have a hard time believing that an angel who owns _that_ many books _doesn’t_ read the paper.”

Metatron frowned deeply at the newspaper. “… _Or_ , he might just not be interested in the commendation section,” he said. “We’ve _only_ had a paper for four hundred years. If he thinks he did not earn _any_ commendations in the first five and a half millennia, it might have been a sore subject for him. Or he might just prefer the comics.”

Her eyelids drooped. “ _No one_ prefers the comics in this paper,” she said. “We _literally_ have the _lamest_ funny pages in the _history_ of funny pages.”

“Oh.” Metatron pursed his lips. “Perhaps he prefers the sports page?”

Raphael rolled her eyes and dropped the paper back onto the coffee table. “I think it’s worth investigating if Aziraphale’s paper was tampered with. I want to know how far the Bastard of All Bastards went to keep him from knowing about his own commendations.”

Metatron quietly regarded her, and he sighed. “I think you need help,” he said quietly, and he looked at the piles of papers stacked on her desk. “You are giving yourself far more work than any one angel can do.”

She started to follow his gaze, but hastily averted her eyes before she could actually _see_ the piles of paper on her desk. “Are you volunteering? I would _love_ a volunteer.”

“I wish I could,” he said quietly. “But I am Her voice, not Her hands.”

“Well…” Raphael spread her hands, palms up. “We have a slight shortage of Archangels,” she said dryly.

“There are still ten million _angels_ , though,” he said. “It shouldn’t all be on you alone.”

“Well—take that up with _Her_ , then,” Raphael said, gesturing vaguely upwards. “She’s the one who _put_ it all on _me_ to _fix Heaven_.”

Metatron eyed her warily for a long moment, and then very pointedly turned his attention upwards to silently consult with God.

When it lasted more than a few seconds, Raphael started to feel edgy. Then Metatron started making odd facial expressions, which usually indicated an argument.

Raphael got up, found her pipe on the floor where she’d left it, and set about refilling it, making a mental note to get some stronger stuff the next time she went to Earth.

With her pipe lit again, she settled back down on the lectus just as Metatron sighed and returned his focus to the room. “She says She made you clever enough to figure out how to delegate, and that if you’re going to keep doing _that_ —” He pointed at the pipe to clarify. “Then you should change the no smoking rule.”

Raphael rolled her eyes. “Can I delegate _that_ stuff?” she said, waving towards her desk without looking at it. “Most of it doesn’t even _do_ anything!”

Metatron eyed the piles. “I believe all of it requires an Archangel’s approval.”

“Well how can I _fix_ anything with all of _that_ taking up so much time!” she said, gesturing with her pipe. “I swear, it’s all designed to be as _inefficient_ as possible. I—I _always_ hated all of the, the— _bureaucracy_ running things up here, and now it’s all on _me_ and it’s—just—it’s not even _possible_!”

Metatron nodded. “So, how do you fix it?”

Raphael sighed. She took a long drag from her pipe and dumped her head into her other hand. “…I don’t know.”

“Well, then, take a deep breath. Give yourself some time to _think_ , so that you can figure it out.”

Raphael picked her head up. “Is that _you_ talking, or is that from Mum?”

Metatron frowned, furrowed his brow, and scowled down at his hands as he puzzled over it. “I don’t know,” he decided.

Metatron was never anyone’s first choice for a confidant.

“It did sound somewhat motherly, didn’t it,” Metatron mused. “Perhaps it was both of us.”

Raphael shook her head and stood up. Smoking the last of her pipe, she silently wandered her office, looking around at all of the _things_ she’d collected, all of the figurines and the hand-crafted furniture, the statues and the sculptures and the tapestries, the paintings, the etchings, the sketches. Memories of the many, many humans who had made all of those different things flitted across her mind. _What would YOU have done?_ she wondered, thinking of the artist behind each item she looked at. _How would YOU fix this?_

She emptied her pipe with a thought and set it back on its shelf, and then she plucked up a set of Chinese medicine balls and rolled them around in her hand as she wandered back to the lectus. Her silver-rimmed gold eyes found the model train running around the edge of her office, and she traced its path with her gaze. “I need a task force,” she said quietly as she settled down on the lectus. “No. I need _two_ task forces. One to streamline all the paperwork _nonsense_ … and one to do a _full_ investigation on my— _colleagues_.”

Metatron nodded. “And what will _you_ do?”

“Micromanage the investigation task force,” she said bluntly. She sprawled out on the lectus, reclining to the left, as had been proper in Rome[20]. “I need to make sure _that_ one—actually, that _both_ task forces have a good mix of angels. An exact even split of the ones who still side with the Four Arch Idiots, and the ones who don’t. And then I have to make sure both groups _actually_ work _together_. Especially in the investigation task force.”

“…And so, you will micromanage,” Metatron said, nodding thoughtfully. He tilted his head. “What will you do with the _results_ of that investigation? Who will be allowed to read it?”

She rolled the little metal balls around in her hand, staring intently at a three-inch-tall Eiffel Tower without seeing it. “Full transparency,” she decided. “ _Everyone_ gets to know. Might even turn it into a public trial. Let _everyone_ see.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And then, you will decide their punishments?”

Raphael winced, and she sighed. “…Well, if I make it a _trial_ , then—I don’t know, maybe I’ll let the _Host_ decide on their punishments,” she said, gesturing dramatically towards her office door. She looked straight up. “How’s _that_ for delegating?” she called out.

Metatron very quietly decided to ignore the rather bratty behavior. “…It does seem that you at least have the beginnings of a plan,” he said. “What will you do first? Assemble your task forces?”

She took a slow deep breath, in and out. “…Yes. I guess so.” She slid her feet to the floor and stood up. “And _then_ , I am finding _all_ of Aziraphale’s commendations and sending them to him.”

Metatron nodded and carefully stood up as well. “If… If there _is_ anything that I _can_ do to help, Raphael… do let me know,” he said, his voice soft and gentle now. “You are not as alone in this as you feel.”

Raphael regarded him for a moment, and then… “Is that _you_ or Her?” she asked, pointing up.

He hesitantly glanced upwards, and then returned his gaze to the Archangel. “ _Mostly_ me.”

Metatron was never _anyone’s_ first choice for a confidant. And that was really a shame.

Raphael reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. “Thanks, Met,” she said softly.

[1] And Hell, same building, shared lobby.

[2] Meant to deter any human visitors from entering either realm prior to dying. Not that anyone ever drowned in the water. It’s just that when you’re walking into a lobby and aiming for an escalator, it doesn’t matter how lost, drunk, or high you are; suddenly being knee-deep in water is a very clear signal that you’re in the wrong place. All humans leave under their own power, often with every intention of reporting the building to someone because that much standing water is obviously a safety hazard.

[3] That’s a bit of an exaggeration. Bombardment very strongly implies that there’s more than one person or thing doing the bombarding. But angry angels are just as prone to exaggeration as angry humans. Same with demons, actually.

[4] The Meddling Office was not the actual title of that department. The actual title was much longer, and very carefully phrased to sound suitably noble and sophisticated. Of course, nobody ever bothered to remember the real name—including the angels assigned to that department—unless they needed it for official documents.

[5] The bars to the Quartermaster’s cell were made of ivory, or something like that, because the Quartermaster had expected them to be white and made of something hard. No animals were harmed in the creation of that cell.

[6] If they are lucky enough to be issued one

[7] Or didn’t work at all but tried, or actually clashed horribly and just went with it anyway.

[8] Or self-proclaimed lack thereof

[9] The R2D2 figurine was the lone survivor of that one time in the 1980s when Raphael had been stuck filling out forms in Heaven, had gotten bored, and had miracled the majority of his sci-fi related figurines to ‘life’ and staged a full-on battle of Daleks and Storm Troopers vs. everything else. It was hilarious.

[10] Or just very drunk, or both.

[11] Not actual water, obviously.

[12] Poor little wooden lady had been trying to hang up the same tiny frock on the same little clothesline for the better part of three and a half centuries.

[13] Which had gone miraculously well, considering the time period.

[14] “Lectus” being an ancient Roman couch. It was not ancient when it was purchased. Raphael liked it, though, because it had an oddly strong aura of love coming off of it. What Raphael didn’t know is that it was the very lectus a certain demon had been sprawled upon the first time he’d eaten an oyster. There were two Beings who were still alive who might have been able to tell him this, as they were both there at the time. Alas, neither of them had been paying much attention to the furniture.

[15] Which probably wasn’t as fulfilling these days as it had been for the last 6,000 years.

[16] Earlier in the week, Raphael had insisted that this particular item was one that humans sat on. Metatron was still not entirely convinced.

[17] Yet another treasure that had fed a starving artist

[18] Actually, he had only told her forty-one times.

[19] Which really doesn’t seem possible, if you think about it. Like most angels who don’t go to Earth—which is most angels—Metatron didn’t actually have a body. He was just body-shaped…something. But, body or no body, angels in Heaven are fully capable of things like grabbing each other, fighting, hugging, and sitting in bean bag chairs. It only gets tricky when they try to do that stuff on Earth without a body.

[20] Sprawling was really the only correct way to occupy a Roman couch. Proper posture had no place on such furniture. Despite his best efforts, even Aziraphale had been forced to concede to sprawling. Alcohol helped.


End file.
